Two To Tango
by Tyraa Rane
Summary: “I know I might be asking for the impossible, but I need you to give up just a little bit of control, darling. Just this once.” [SashaxMilla]
1. Part One

_Disclaimer: Psychonauts and all related characters, etc. are property of DoubleFine Productions. I'm only borrowing and I promise I'll play nice, so please don't sue._

_Two to Tango_

The first time he meets Milla Vodello, he walks into her office to find her levitating near the ceiling, changing a lightbulb. Her office is the equivalent of a dark closet with only one narrow window (overlooking the parking lot) that she's already opened as far as it will go. It lets in only a bare minimum of light, although her flashy, more-than-likely polyester clothing more than makes up for it.

She hasn't noticed his entrance, so he takes a moment to watch her and make an attempt at figuring out how to approach her--besides with a ladder, that is. Finally, he gently clears his throat and says, "You know, you could just call the janitor and have that taken care of."

She jumps and nearly hits the ceiling, startled by his sudden appearance, and then tilts her head back to look at him. Her long dark hair sweeps down towards the floor with a sudden cascade of perfume and she smiles. She is beautiful in an exotic, South American sense, and something in her demeanor suggests that she already knows this without needing to be told.

"I...ah, I haven't found my phone yet, darling." Her smile doesn't falter as she looks him up and down.

He ignores her scrutiny, peering into one of the many boxes scattered around the room and frowning at the chaos inside. "Yes...I can see why."

She gives up on the lightbulb and floats gracefully down towards the floor, although her three-inch heels still don't make contact with the tile. "I'm sorry about the mess; I've only been here a few minutes and haven't had a chance to unpack anything." Somehow, he doesn't think unpacking would help. "Oh--" she stops and extends a white-gloved hand. "Milla Vodello. I just transferred--"

"--from Rio de Janeiro. Yes, I read your file." She looks momentarily baffled and perhaps a little annoyed, but he shakes her hand anyway. "Sasha Nein. And if I'm not mistaken, Agent Vodello, you're my new partner."

She pauses and gives him another sweeping glance before smiling again and finally pulling her hand away. "Well. It's a pleasure...may I call you Sasha?"

"If you must."

There's an awkward silence, and he's about to leave with an excuse and a promise of meeting her again once she's had a chance to properly settle in when she points at one of the bare, off-white walls. "By the way," she says, "do you have any idea who my neighbor is?"

He leans back out into the hallway. One glance at the door next to hers, which is plastered with fliers for a variety of armed forces, tells him all he needs to know. "Agent Oleander. He's been here for several years now. Have you met him?"

"Briefly. He seems a little..." She trails off, shrugging.

"You'll get used to him," he says, smiling a little. "I wouldn't worry; he's mostly harmless so far as I can tell. Although I wouldn't mention 'little' around him too much."

She laughs and invites him to lunch, which he politely declines, although he does help her unpack some of her things in hopes that some sense of order might come from it. Unfortunately, it doesn't, and even more unfortunately, this turns into something of a theme with her.

* * *

As if the glare from the spotlights isn't bad enough, cameras are going off constantly, leaving him a little dizzy and almost blind from the spots in front of his eyes--and that's _with_ his sunglasses. Sasha finally ended up excusing himself from the crowd almost half an hour ago, claiming he had "official Psychonauts business" to wrap up. He'd then retreated to a safe distance and tried to look busy, hoping he wouldn't be bothered any more than he already has been.

Milla is, of course, still in the center of the crowd, smiling widely, her green eyes sparkling in the light. He had, of course, expected this from the moment the press had descended on them immediately following their capture and arrest of one of the world's most wanted psychic terrorists. He'd remembered from her personnel file and the notes left in it that she loved the camera, but still...nothing could have prepared him for the reality of it. They've been partners for only three weeks, and he knew that this was going to happen sooner or later, but he'd really been hoping to postpone it for as long as possible anyway.

When the press finally leaves them alone two hours later, she's still smiling, although her face is flushed and she looks a little exhausted. "Are you all right?" she asks, looping her arm through his. He tenses up at the unexpected contact, which only makes her frown. "You seemed a little tense earlier."

"I'm fine. It's been a long day and, well..." He motions to the grass the press had trampled in their rush to get their interviews. Milla nods.

"I understand, darling. Not everyone loves the camera, after all." She smiles at him again and somehow manages to make him not mind that they're two hours overdue to report back to headquarters.

* * *

There are times, though, when she seems to hit on his last nerve with absolutely uncanny accuracy. In the past three months he's lost his temper only twice (a fact he's not proud of in the least), and both times at her. She, of course, has an almost vindictive temper of her own and has snapped right back at him, although sometimes she just settles for staring at him in stony silence until he can't stand it anymore and demands to know what's wrong, which almost always sparks an argument. They can go for days without speaking to one another--Sasha locks himself in his lab and pretends to be very, very engrossed in whatever experiment he's working on, and Milla...well, he has to admit that he doesn't know what she does in some of the long stretches between assignments when they're mid-argument, but she disappears for days on end, too.

Three times he's brought up the possibility of a transfer, for both or either of them. Truman Zanotto, a senior agent of slightly lower standing than Sasha, just lost his partner to their base of operations in London, and although he and Sasha have never gotten along all that well, he thinks Milla and Truman might be a good match. Meanwhile, there are several new junior officers who he thinks might make good partners for him--they're all quiet and controlled and basically everything Milla isn't.

Each time he mentions it, though, Milla rejects it. "It's not that I don't like Truman, darling," she says, "I do, but I don't think we'd work well together. Not like you and I do."

She has a good point, he has to admit. And when he finally gives up and takes his case directly to Ford Cruller, that's exactly the response he both predicts and gets.

"Sasha, I put you two together because I thought you'd make a good team. And you do--you two've solved more cases and stopped more emergencies in the past four months than anybody around here can remember. Besides," he says, snickering a little, "I was hoping she'd lighten you up a bit. You need a sense of humor."

"It only interferes with the task at hand," Sasha answers, shifting a little uncomfortably in his chair. "It's better to focus on the mission, don't you think?"

Cruller waves a hand at him, rolling his eyes. "Whatever. Look, if you two really can't work this out, let me know, and I'll transfer one of you. I'd hate to do it, but I will. That good enough?"

He nods. "That's fine. Thank you, sir."

As he stands to go, Cruller stops him. "Listen, Nein. I know she's not what you're used to. I knew that when I assigned her. But she's willing to give _you _a chance, so just try, you hear me?"

"Of course. I'll...do my best." Privately, though, he wonders how long it will be before he's back in Cruller's office, filling out the appropriate paperwork for a transfer.

* * *

He's been looking for Milla everywhere for hours now--she's not in her office, not in _his _office (she's been dropping by unannounced and uninvited lately, and no amount of discouraging remarks seems to stop her), and not loitering by any of the coffee machines. When he finally finds her she is, to his surprise, huddled in a back corner of the cafeteria with Oleander and Truman. Truman is staring at his relatively untouched plate of food, half-heartedly shuffling some peas around with his fork every now and again. Milla is watching him with concern; Oleander looks thoroughly bored, occasionally stirring his coffee via telekinesis.

"Milla," Sasha begins, sliding into an empty seat across from her, "I've been looking for you. Didn't you hear--"

"Not now, darling," she says, not even bothering to look up at him.

He stops and stares at her. "Milla. We have an assignment--"

"We've saved the world twice already this week, Sasha; it can wait a few more minutes." Sasha blinks, caught off-guard by her flippant attitude, while Oleander snorts into his coffee. She just turns her attention back to Truman. "Darling, I really think you should go home. I'm sure Cruller would understand..."

Truman absently pushes some peas all the way across his plate and onto the table. "No, no, I'll be fine, really." Sasha notes that at the moment he certainly doesn't _look _fine; his clothes look like they've been slept in, his dark brown hair is stringy and unwashed, and there are prominent circles under his normally bright blue eyes.

Milla frowns at him. "Well, if you'd like, maybe Sasha and I could--"

"We can't," Sasha interrupts, casting a pointed glance Milla's direction even as she glares at him. "We already have an assignment."

She starts to argue, but Truman puts a hand on her wrist and stops her. "Really, Milla, it's okay. This is probably better left to the police anyway."

Sasha raises an eyebrow. "Police?"

"Zanotto's wife ran out on him and took their kid with her," Oleander supplies helpfully, although he still looks rather disinterested. "Police are calling it a kidnapping."

Truman stabs something that might have been chicken in a former life with his fork, slowly shaking his head. "I thought Christine was okay with it--you know, the whole psychic powers thing. I mean, she knew I was psychic before we got married, so I just thought... But lately Lili's been showing some signs of being psychic too, and Chris just...panicked, I guess. I don't know what the hell she thinks she's doing."

Milla smiles and squeezes his hand. "I'm sure things will sort themselves out, darling. But I wish you'd let one of us help you."

"No...more psychics would probably just make things worse. The police'll find her eventually." A few more peas slide off his plate and down onto the table.

"Yes, but we could find her faster, and maybe what she needs is someone to explain things to her...I might be able to, if--"

"_If _you didn't already have another mission," Sasha reminds her pointedly. Her frown deepens.

"Whatever it is, I'm sure you're capable of handling it alone. Do you think you could--"

"I'd rather you were with me," he says, absently smoothing out a wrinkle in his jacket.

Beside him, Oleander snorts and picks up his coffee cup, peering into it. "World need saving again, Nein? What is it this time--terrorists holding somebody important hostage with a psychic death ray again?"

Sasha doesn't blink as he answers, entirely matter-of-factly, "Hardly. Agent Cruller has made some contacts recently that are believed to have some clue as to the current location of one Nicholas Harper. Milla and I have just been asked to follow up on this and, if possible, find and capture Harper."

Truman's fork slips, dragging across the plate with a high-pitched squealing noise that nearly drowns out the sound of Oleander choking on his coffee and spitting it out all over the table. Sasha calmly scoots away and hands him a small stack of napkins to clean up the mess with. Milla just looks at them all, confused.

"I'm sorry...who's Nicholas Harper?"

Oleander ignores the napkins and blinks at her. "You mean you haven't heard?"

"No...should I have?"

"Probably."

Truman sets his fork down and sighs. "Nick was in our class--" he motions to himself and Sasha-- "back at the academy. He was a friend of yours, wasn't he, Sasha?"

"I suppose you could say that."

"Yeah, well, whatever you'd call him...he was one of the best in the class. Maybe even better than Sasha if he was having a good day. But Cruller ended up kicking him out during his last year. Said he was too unstable. Nick...didn't like that. I think if he wasn't crazy before that, that did him in--he took off and no one saw him for years."

"Until...?" Milla prompts, both eyebrows raised.

Sasha clears his throat and jumps back into the conversation. "Until approximately two years ago, when he developed a sudden interest in psychic terrorism, tried to stage a hostile takeover of headquarters, and killed my last partner, putting himself near the top of the list of our most wanted criminals." She turns and stares at him, green eyes suddenly very wide.

"Forgot to tell her about what happened to Elizabeth, eh, Nein?" Oleander says, snickering. He sobers up after a few seconds, however, finally starting to mop up the spilled coffee. "That was the same night I ended up with the glass eye. Wasn't pretty, I can tell you that much."

Milla is still staring at Sasha, so Truman smiles at her weakly. "Don't worry. So far as we can tell he's not cursed or anything. You're probably safe."

"Oh, good."

Sasha stands, motioning towards the door. "And now that you've been fully briefed--more or less--I believe that we've had the jet waiting for us for over half an hour. We should have been well on our way to Shanghai by now."

"Just a minute." Milla turns back to Truman. "Are you sure you don't want us to--"

"I'm sure, Milla. You've got your work cut out for you already--just go and don't worry about me. And yes," he adds, seeing the look on her face, "I'll go home. Thanks."

Apparently satisfied, she wishes him good luck and then stands, following Sasha out of the cafeteria. When they get out into the hallway, she clears her throat gently. "You...you never told me about Eliza--"

"It was in my file," he says coolly, "which I assumed you'd read. Clearly, I was mistaken."

She stiffens, her normally graceful step faltering a little. "Some of us like to learn these things from a person, not a file, darling."

* * *

Sasha stares at the room--it's no bigger than Milla's office, really--and wishes, for the fifth time that week, that he would have thought to bring cleaning supplies with him. Milla breezes past him, peers out the dingy window (the curtains are tattered, moth-eaten, and falling down), and tries a few of the lights around the room, only to find that all but one of them are burned out or broken. "Well," she says, trying to sound cheerful, "it's better than the last hotel we stayed in, isn't it?"

Sasha turns on the light in the bathroom and peers inside. "There doesn't appear to be any cockroaches in the shower, so yes."

She smiles and picks up the phone, shaking the receiver a few times to get a clear dial tone, and then starts to call the last of Cruller's informants while Sasha makes a thorough inspection of the room. It's a routine they've fallen into over the past week, which has been spent following false leads and generally worthless information, all while living out of dingy hotel rooms in some of the worst parts of the city and pretending that they're not starting to get on one another's nerves more than usual.

"He's going to meet us at the market down the street in a few minutes," Milla announces after a brief conversation, hanging up the phone. "Although I don't know if he'll have anything useful to tell us."

"Per usual," Sasha mutters, lifting up the mattress and inspecting it for bedbugs. She sits down on the room's other bed--the springs groan and the bed sags down almost to the floor--and waits patiently for him to finish.

"At least this is our last lead, darling. If it doesn't turn up anything useful, we can go home."

"And we'll have completely wasted our time." He drops the mattress back down and, having finished his inspection, motions to the door. They leave and head back out into the noisy and crowded Shanghai streets. On Monday, when they'd first arrived, Milla would loop her arm through his and walk right by his side in hopes of warding off any possible muggers looking to pick on a couple of "tourists" if for no other reason. By Wednesday she settled for just resting her hand on his arm. And now, on Saturday, she walks along beside him but doesn't touch him at all. Sasha doesn't particularly mind; it's good to have personal space again.

Their informant has nothing of particular interest to tell them, just a few clues they've already followed and found to be dead ends. They look at one another, sigh, and return to the room to gather their things and arrange for a flight back to headquarters.

On the way home, Milla gets a phone call--Truman has finally given in and asked the Psychonauts for help finding his wife and daughter, and he wants her help, specifically. Milla takes one look at Sasha and then accepts the offer on the spot. They return to headquarters, she leaves with hardly a goodbye, and Sasha locks himself in his lab for the entire two and a half weeks she's gone, reveling in the peace and quiet while it lasts.

* * *

"You _forgot _the maps?"

Milla pulls her head out of the glove compartment and glares at him. "I didn't forget the _maps_, I just forgot the one map we happen to need, _darling_." Her voice is cold enough to put a chill in even the humid mid-August air. "And you'll have to excuse me if I didn't think in advance that, oh, perhaps we'd be out in the middle of nowhere when we were supposed to be in _Indianapolis_."

Sasha takes a deep breath and digs his cigarettes out of his pocket, leaning against the side of the car. The passenger side door is open and the keys are still in the ignition, causing the car to beep in alarm with annoying regularity. It's not helping him concentrate.

"Considering that you knew we would be going to Indiana," he shoots back, matching her icy tone, "I fail to see why you would neglect to bring a state map."

She slams the glove compartment shut, rips the keys from the ignition, and starts glaring at him, forcing him to turn and acknowledge her. "Take I-90 to I-71 to I-70--it's not that hard and doesn't need a map. Now, this was supposed to be a simple mission in the city, not a mad chase through the cornfields! _That's_ why I have a map of the city, but not of the rest of the state." As if to prove her point, she waves the Indianapolis map in the air.

"They're soybeans, actually."

She stops, map frozen in mid-air. "What?"

"The plants in that field over there," he says casually, motioning to the wide green field on their left with his cigarette. "They're soybeans, not corn."

She stares at him for a few long moments, then makes a frustrated noise and gets back into the car, slamming the door. She's only in there for a few minutes, though, before the heat forces her back outside. Sasha puts out his cigarette and turns to her.

"If you're quite through, I'm going to try and reach Agent Cruller. He may be able to get a fix on our location, in which case the mission may not be a total loss."

"Oh, good," she answers, not looking at him. "Be sure to tell him that you think it's my fault for not being perfectly prepared for everything like you are, won't you, darling?" He just ignores her as he carefully unwraps a piece of bacon and waves it in the air and then starts having what appears to be a very involved conversation with his right ear. An Amish farmer riding by in a horse-and-buggy stares at him with very wide eyes, then shakes his head and hurries on ahead. Milla snorts and waits for Sasha to finish.

When he does, wrapping up the bacon and putting it back into his pocket, he doesn't look happy. "According to Cruller we're about fifty miles south of the Michigan state line."

"And?"

"And," he continues a little testily, "considering that our suspect was last seen heading for Kentucky, we're of absolutely no use to the rest of the Psychonauts at the moment. They're scrubbing the mission and sending Morry and Leopold in to handle it."

"Oh." She stops, considers this for a moment, then sighs. "So...we should be going back, then?"

"So it would seem." He briefly debates lighting another cigarette, but in the end just gets back into her car, slamming the door without really intending to. She gets back into the driver's seat and puts the keys in the ignition but doesn't start the car.

"Did he give you directions?" she asks quietly.

"Yes."

"That's...that's good." She moves to turn the key, then hesitates and looks over at him. "Sasha, darling...I'm sorry."

"So am I." Although he doesn't look at her and his voice is completely neutral, they both know what he means. She starts the car and slowly pulls back onto the main road. Aside from a few brief conversations about which road to take and which way to turn, they spend the rest of the ride back to headquarters in passive-aggressive silence, and Sasha files a request for a transfer as soon as they get back.

* * *

They haven't spoken for almost four days. Headquarters has graced them with a few days of leave, giving Cruller time to process Sasha's transfer (grumbling about it all the while, of course) and assign them both new partners, although Sasha still hasn't told Milla about that. He likes to assume that she can guess what's going on--she's perfectly intelligent, after all--or that he'll tell her later, after their tempers have both died down a bit. In the meantime, he has work to do.

On the fourth day of their not speaking to one another, he's busy analyzing test results from his latest experiment when someone knocks at his door. "Come in." The door slides open and he continues, "You'll have to forgive me; I'm a bit busy at the moment and--"

"Nein."

He turns around just as Ford Cruller closes the door. "Oh, sir, I wasn't expecting--" The control panel under his right hand beeps and prints out another string of test results. "If you'll excuse me, this should only take a minute--"

"Put the test results down, Sasha."

Sasha pauses, surprised by Cruller's unusually solemn tone. He sets the results down, a little reluctantly, and pulls up a couple of chairs. Cruller sits down gratefully--lately age has been starting to stoop his shoulders and standing for too long can be uncomfortable, although he doesn't like to admit it to anyone. He starts to say something, but Sasha cuts him off.

"Sir, if this is about my request...I'm sorry, but you can't talk me out of it. Obviously our differences are starting to affect the missions, and I think we can all agree that that could easily jeopardize everything. I've tried, Agent Vodello's tried, but our differences are irreconcilable."

"Oh, I know I'd never change your mind, Nein," Cruller says, shaking his head. "No, the transfer's still going through, just like you asked. I'm actually here about something else."

He looks back at the test results wistfully. "If this is about the Indianapolis mission, sir--"

"It's about your father."

Sasha's head snaps back around to look at Cruller so fast he nearly pitches out of his chair. "My father?"

Cruller nods and takes a wadded-up communiqué out of his pocket, unfolding it and smoothing out as many of the wrinkles as he can with a touch of reverence. "I just got this on my desk about an hour ago." He hands it over and Sasha takes it but doesn't look at it yet, still waiting for him to finish whatever he has to say. "He died yesterday, Sasha. I'm sorry."

Silence descends as Sasha reads the letter once, then twice, then calmly folds it up and places it on his desk. "I...I see."

Cruller nods slowly and then stands up to leave, although he does pat Sasha's shoulder sympathetically (if a bit awkwardly) as he turns towards the door. "I'll extend your leave a few extra days if you'd like. I'd give you more, but we've been picking up some unusual activity on the monitors lately, so...you know. But if you want to head home and stay there for a while, I'm sure Truman could handle whatever's going on. Especially if he's got Milla with him."

Sasha just shakes his head, reaching for a cigarette. "No, that won't be necessary, thank you."

"Well...all right then. Let me know if you change your mind." The door closes and then Sasha sits there for a long time, unmoving, lit cigarette burning down unnoticed in his hand.

* * *

Even the best-kept secrets spread fast at Psychonauts headquarters, and in the next few days a whole parade of people stop by Sasha's lab to offer their sympathy and, in some cases, various types of food (Milla explained this to him once as some sort of odd ritual people do for their friends when something significant happens to them, but he still doesn't understand it and probably never will). Even Truman drops by briefly to tell Sasha how sorry he is, although he doesn't stay long, mumbling something about how Lili has a cold and then fleeing the room. Sasha's father died on Wednesday, he found out about it on Thursday, and by Friday evening it seems as if almost all of headquarters has been to see him. Everyone, that is, except for Milla, who is still conspicuously absent. Normally this wouldn't bother him in the slightest; she's too loud and flamboyant and energetic for him to put up with right now, but strangely enough he finds himself noting her absence and wondering where she is.

He gets his answer at around midnight on Friday when, long after everyone but the skeleton night shift crew has gone home or is off on assignment, someone knocks on his door. Putting the experiment he'd been working on aside for the moment, he goes and answers it.

Milla is standing in the empty hall, fidgeting nervously and staring down at the floor. She's wearing a trench coat and has a suitcase slung over one arm, and her hair is a bit askew, as if she's in a rush. She looks up at him when he clears his throat, although she doesn't smile.

"Sasha."

"Agent Vodello."

"I...ah, Morceau called me yesterday."

"Oh, did he?"

"Yes...he told me about what happened." She steps forward suddenly, as if she's about to hug him, then thinks better of it and takes a few steps back. "I'm so sorry, darling."

"Well...thank you," he says. "But if you'll excuse me, I'd much rather be alone at the moment. Besides, it looks like you're on your way out the door already; I wouldn't want to delay you."

"Oh, this is...I'm moving into a new office, actually. One with a window overlooking the courtyard and everything." She offers him a faltering smile. "These are just a few things I'm taking home with me."

"Ah. I see." He wonders idly if she knows about the impending transfer, and if he should tell her. In the end, he hopes that she does and doesn't say anything about it. "I hope the new office suits you. Please excuse me."

He moves to close the door, but she takes a step forward and puts her foot in the way. The door starts to close, then flies back open again after it hits her shoe. He raises an eyebrow at her, hoping his surprise doesn't show on his face.

"Milla, what--"

"Sasha, I know you don't want to talk to me, but..." She starts rummaging through the suitcase, keeping her foot firmly in front of the door the entire time. "I just wanted to stop by and...and give you this." She finally pulls out a rumpled plane ticket from some obscure pocket and, after hesitating for a moment, presses it into his hand. He looks at it and then back at her, bewildered.

"Go home," she says softly. "I talked to Cruller--you've got an extra week of leave if you want it. There's no return ticket...call me whenever you're ready to come back and I'll pay for it. Or you could, if you'd like." She smiles at him, weakly, and then disappears down the hall before he can say anything. He stares after her long after she's disappeared from sight, then returns to the lab, setting the plane ticket on top of the letter Cruller gave him.

For a few minutes he goes back to his experiments like nothing ever happened. But then the simulation reports all start to blur together and turn dull and uninteresting. And then the lab's complete and total silence turns oppressive. Finally he gives up, throws a few things into a suitcase, grabs the letter and the ticket both, and calls a cab to the airport on his way out the door.

While the plane flies over the Atlantic he thinks of her more than he does his father, struggling to figure out what made her do this for him, but he can come up with no logical answers, which in the end doesn't particularly surprise him.

When they stop for a layover at Heathrow he finds a phone, calls headquarters, and cancels his request for a transfer.

* * *

He returns to headquarters a week later, paying his own airfare, although he does call Milla to thank her for her generosity. She sounds glad to hear from him, makes a few polite inquiries about whether or not he managed to settle everything and if he's doing all right (he has and he is, thank you), and offers to pick him up at the airport. He thinks about this for a few seconds, then accepts.

He meets her out in the airport parking lot (she is, per usual, fashionably late) and they drive back to headquarters, making occasional small talk about the unseasonably warm November weather and what's been going on since he left (Truman's divorce is finalized and he's also won custody of his daughter; Leopold broke his ankle in a skiing accident while on vacation in Vermont; Milla has finally finished redecorating her apartment). When they arrive, she helps him with his suitcases, and then Oleander drops by and invites them to dinner, so they sit in the cafeteria for a while and make even more small talk.

It's late when they finally leave, and Milla walks him back to his lab in a companionable sort of silence. Halfway there she stops and loops her arm through his, tentatively at first, but she smiles when he doesn't stiffen or pull away.

"I'm glad you didn't take the transfer, darling."

"It...seemed like the logical thing to do."

And that's all they ever say on the matter.

* * *

_Christmas Eve_

___On second thought_, he thinks,_this may have been a mistake_. Of course Milla had invited him, and it would have been rude of him not to come, considering they're partners and--he supposes--friends. But he never paid Christmas any particular attention and was also never one for parties, so why he thought it would be a good idea to mix the two and Milla in all together, he honestly has no idea.

He sighs and continues his wary circulation of the perimeter of Milla's living room, looking for the exit onto her balcony so he can catch some fresh air (the apartment reeks of perfume and something he hopes is eggnog) and a cigarette. The loud colors on the walls--she painted them herself--are nearly giving him a migraine besides, and the music is doing him no further favors.

He's halfway to the balcony doors when Oleander spots him and, as a way of getting himself out of a conversation with a pair of Milla's dancer friends--they nearly outnumber and definitely out-weird the invited Psychonauts in the room; no small feat--insists that he be introduced to them instead.

"Morry," he half-shouts, struggling to be heard over the general noise, "I really don't think--"

"Just shut up and get over here, Nein," Oleander snaps. "I've gotta get out of here before somebody steps on me again."

Sighing yet again, Sasha allows himself to be introduced, giving Oleander a chance to escape out onto the much-coveted balcony. Although he has to admit, the two young women (one is named Geri and the other is Gigi, but he has no idea which is which) _are_ fascinating, from a purely psychological standpoint. He's never seen such textbook examples of severe delusional psychosis outside of an insane asylum. Unfortunately, Milla's party is neither the time nor the place to study them, and they disappear into a gaggle of their friends within a few minutes. He starts towards the balcony again, this time trying to think of some sort of excuse that will allow him to leave early without hurting Milla's feelings.

In the midst of all this, the telephone rings, although only a few people hear it above the general din. Oleander, back from the balcony and on his way out the door, is one of them. "Vodello! Phone!"

Milla excuses herself from a conversation and answers it, trying to ignore the fact that half the room is now staring at her. After a few moments, her normally cheerful face sinks into a deep frown and she takes the phone into the kitchen, where it's quieter and there's more privacy. Sasha, mildly concerned, follows her as far as the doorway and waits.

"Of course," she says to whoever's on the other end, her voice ringing slightly hollow, as if in shock. "Of course...we'll be right there. Yes." She hesitates, then asks, "Is it...? I see. All right. Goodbye."

She hangs up the phone and turns to him, somehow not surprised or offended that he followed her. There are tears in her eyes. "We need to go back to headquarters immediately. It's Agent Cruller."

_****__End Part One  
_


	2. Part Two

Truman, who has never smoked a day in his life, takes Sasha's proffered cigarette and lights it with trembling hands. "God," he says quietly, "this is just..." He shakes his head and runs a hand through his rapidly graying hair. Sasha nods and silently lights his second cigarette of the hour.

They're standing in the cramped observation room that overlooks one of the infirmary's private rooms. White-walled and sterile, it's home to the world's best medical equipment, along with a few innovations the Psychonauts have kept mostly to themselves. A pair of doctors--specially trained to deal with medical problems resulting from severe psychological trauma--stand in a corner of the room down below, conferring and shaking their heads over a clipboard.

In the room's center, seeming tiny and fragile in the wide hospital bed, is Ford Cruller. He's deep in a medically induced coma, hooked up to a number of devices meant to monitor brain waves and the like. His hair, which was dark gray sprinkled with white just a few days ago, has suddenly turned a stark white that matches the walls. Milla is sitting at his side, only occasionally casting worried glances back at the two men in the observation room.

"This is...this is bad," Truman finally mutters, putting out his cigarette with a look of disgust. "I mean, this is just...it's bad."

Sasha nods again. "Do we have any idea what happened? Milla...wasn't very clear on the details when she explained the situation to me." He absently checks his pocket for her car keys; she'd been crying too hard to drive when they'd left her apartment.

"He was in a psychic duel, that much I know. Something serious must've come up and he went to deal with it himself, I don't know...nobody's clear on exact details yet. But the doctors--" he motions vaguely to the two men still huddled in the corner-- "they say it completely shattered his psyche. Won't even let any of us in there to take a look, it's so bad." He picks up a pen from the desk in front of him and starts chewing on it absently. "They don't know if he'll ever recover. It's a miracle he even survived."

Again, Sasha nods and lights a third cigarette, using telekinesis to keep his hands from shaking.

* * *

It's around six in the morning when they're finally chased out of the infirmary with orders to eat and sleep and promises of updates if anything changes. Truman disappears into his office to get the smell of cigarette smoke out of his clothing and think of something to tell everyone else; Sasha and Milla continue down the hall to his lab in a shocked sort of silence.

He stops in the doorway and hands Milla her keys, watching her carefully. "Are you sure you're all right to drive?"

"I...I don't know," she admits, running a hand through her hair. It's tangled and seems to be frizzing under the stress.

"Maybe you should stay here, then. Unless you'd like me to drive you home?"

"No, no, it's all right, I just..." She stops and suddenly dissolves into tears again. For a moment he stares at her, almost dumbfounded. Finally he pulls her to him, a little awkwardly, then takes her keys back and walks her back to her office, where he settles her on the couch and doesn't leave until he's sure she's sleeping.

* * *

The next few weeks dissolve into a chaotic blur. Headquarters goes into temporary lockdown--no agents in or out except for those on critical missions--in hopes of postponing the media circus that's sure to follow. Milla and Oleander are charged with finding out who Cruller was dueling with that night (Cruller being Cruller, he left no obvious clues as to where he was headed, or why) along with a small task force of junior agents, while Sasha and Truman, being the highest-ranked field agents, are temporarily put in charge of the entire operation. Sasha hates every minute of it.

"You know," Truman says late one night, sifting through assignments that need to go out as soon as the lockdown ends, "if we're not careful this could end up being a permanent job."

Sasha looks up from his carefully sorted stack of file folders. "Why do you say that?"

"Well, let's face it, I don't think Cruller's going to get better any time soon--that reminds me, has Milla checked in yet?"

"Not yet."

"She's two hours overdue..."

"That's normal."

"If you say so. Well--where was I? Oh, yeah. If Cruller doesn't recover, you and I are the top picks for the next Grand Head, you know." He looks at Sasha over a file he's reading as if trying to judge his reaction. Sasha just moves a stray strand of hair out of his eyes and continues his work.

"We are both qualified, yes."

"I think they'll pick you."

Fortunately, the phone picks that exact moment to ring, saving Sasha from having to come up with a response. Even more fortunate, the call is from Milla, who is on her way back to headquarters--meaning that the task force is finished and the lockdown will be lifted soon. "It was Nick, darling," she says, sighing. "He did everything but leave us a note saying he did it."

As soon as Sasha hangs up the phone, another call comes through, this one from the infirmary--Cruller is awake, and in the first five minutes he's been conscious, the doctors have recorded at least three different personalities, none of which have been the original Agent Cruller.

Truman listens to the news quietly, takes a moment to process the information, and then buries his face in his hands. "_Wonderful_."

* * *

"Coffee?" Milla slides into the seat next to him and holds out a cup.

"Thank you." Sasha takes it and sets it down, not looking up from the pages of the report he's reading. Milla peers over his shoulder at it.

"Is that...?"

He nods. "Truman's report on the damage done to Cruller's psyche, yes." He pauses for a minute, then hands it to her, picking up his coffee instead. It's well past two in the morning; the cafeteria is dark and lit by only minimum lighting. He's been there since nine, reading the report again and again and making meticulous notes on every little detail. "It's permanent," he says, watching Milla flip through the pages. "The fragmentation is too complete; there's nothing they can do. Truman isn't even sure if his original personality still exists in any form or if it's just buried somewhere where we can't find it."

She reads for a little longer, then sets it down, running a hand through her hair. "What are they going to do?"

Sasha shrugs, taking another sip of coffee. "That's for the new Grand Head of the Psychonauts to decide. Although the logical thing to do would be to keep him here under close observation, and perhaps continue looking for a way to undo some of the damage, if that's even possible."

Milla nods slowly, pushing the report around on the table with a finger. "What do you think the chances are that they'll choose you?"

"Fifty percent."

She cracks a slow, weary smile. "Right. Do you think I'd be assigned a new partner? If you were named Grand Head, I mean."

"You might. Truman might want a new partner if he's not chosen. And I believe Leopold has mentioned retiring, in which case Morry would be available, as well. Or you could transfer back to Rio de Janeiro or elect to work alone for a while, if you preferred."

She falls silent for a few minutes. Then, "Don't take this the wrong way, darling...but I hope they choose Truman." He doesn't say anything, although privately, he agrees with her.

* * *

Two days after Truman's report is released, the lockdown ends and the new Grand Head is named. Two days after that, Milla stops by Sasha's lab in full dress uniform for once in her life--she keeps fiddling with all the insignias and marks of distinction on the arms and front as she paces around his work station.

"Are you coming to the ceremony?" she asks, finding a loose thread to pick at.

"I didn't plan on it, no." He looks up just as she breaks off the end of the green thread and tosses it into a garbage can. "And would you kindly stop fidgeting? It's not helping me concentrate."

"Sorry. I just can't get used to these uniforms, and--did you hear they picked Morceau to make the speech? I would've thought they'd choose you..."

Sasha shrugs. "They did, actually. I turned them down."

She frowns and, grabbing a nearby chair, sits down across from him. "People are starting to talk, darling."

"Are they?" He doesn't bother glancing up from the monitor in front of him and does his best to keep focusing on the equations on the screen.

"Yes," she says, "they are. And if you don't come tonight it's only going to make things worse. Even Truman--"

He snorts. "Truman should know better than to listen to rumors. I'm not angry that he was chosen over me--he's as qualified as I am; we both stood a fair chance, and I accept the fact that they thought he was the better choice. I am neither jealous nor angry."

Milla scoots her chair forward, folding her arms on the table and then resting her chin on them. "But you _are_ angry about something," she replies quietly. "I can tell. You've been locked in here almost since we got the news, you won't answer the door...you're upset about _something_. What is it?"

Shaking his head, he turns to a meticulously sorted pile of notes and starts sifting through it. "That's a matter best left to myself and our new Grand Head."

"Sasha..."

"I have research to finish, Milla, and if you don't hurry you'll be late. This discussion can wait for another time."

She doesn't move. In fact, he can almost hear her heels digging into the white-tile floor. "I'm not leaving until you tell me."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not. _I'm _not the one who's locked himself in his lab like a child having a temper tantrum." This succeeds in getting him to stop what he's doing and look up. He's not at all surprised to see the beginnings of a victorious smirk on her face. After a moment's hesitation--he's not sure if he should give her the satisfaction of knowing she's finally gotten through to him--he pushes the notes out of the way and sighs.

"If you must know...I went to see Truman as soon as I got the news in order to offer my congratulations. I also enquired as to his plans for his Agent Cruller."

"And?"

He absently finishes a few calculations before continuing. "Truman wants to keep him here under security, but not medical, observation. His belief is that Cruller is a lost cause better suited to an insane asylum, but he's also too much of a security risk to actually be let out of our custody."

"Oh." She leans back in her chair and starts picking at another loose thread. "Oh. I...I didn't know he thought it was as bad as that."

"He does," Sasha says, frowning but returning to his calculations all the same. "Which is why I'm doing the research for him--if I can find a way to unearth Cruller's original personality, perhaps Truman will be a little less eager to write him off as a...a..."

"Loon?" Milla supplies helpfully. He nods.

"More or less, yes. Now do you understand why I can't attend the ceremony? I have too much work to do."

She sighs, getting to her feet and putting the chair back where she found it. "I understand, darling. I'll pass along an apology for you--I'm sure Truman will...I'm sure he'll understand how busy you are."

"I'm sure he will," he says, a touch of sarcasm creeping into his voice unintended. "Be sure to wish Morry good luck with his speech, as well." She nods slowly and then slips out the door, letting him continue his work in peace.

* * *

Sasha telekinetically lifts the manhole cover and then peers down into the sewers, shining a flashlight around. "I fail to understand why, exactly, one would dump the president's brain into the _sewers_."

"Well, darling, that kidnapper _was_ a bit of an amateur." Milla finishes tying her hair back and pinning it up, looking at him. "He probably didn't know any better. Did you find it?"

Something down at the bottom, half-submerged in the sludge, glints in the light from the flashlight. "I think so."

"Good. I'll be right back." With one final check to make sure her hair is still in place, she gracefully levitates herself down into the sewers, following the beam of Sasha's flashlight. He watches patiently as she stops just short of the bottom and dislodges the jar from the sludge, removes the president's brain, and levitates it back up towards him before heading back up towards the surface herself.

"You know," she says, unpinning her hair and shaking it loose as soon as her feet are back on solid ground, "I'm beginning to sense a trend in our missions."

"Easy?" Sasha asks, replacing the manhole cover and putting the brain into a jar of formaldehyde until it can be recranialized Milla nods.

"And ridiculous. First it was the prisoner transport to London, then that gang of psychic _pickpocketers_, and now this. I mean, I realize this _is_ the president's brain, but anyone could have handled this mission, you know? Either we've gotten too good at this, or..."

"I doubt that Agent Zanotto--or anyone else, for that matter--has any reason to intentionally assign us these missions. I'm sure it's only a lull, and that the world will need saving again eventually. Consider this a break." He motions to the brain. "Now, we need to get this recranialized as soon as possible."

* * *

For whatever reason, the lull doesn't break. The rest of January and all of February stretches on in a seemingly unending line of relatively tedious assignments. They've had so much spare time lately that Milla has redecorated her office twice, and Sasha has made more progress on his experiments in the past few weeks than he has in months. And after a few significant missions pass them by, assigned to more junior agents, Sasha starts to wonder if maybe Milla's initial suspicions weren't right after all. However, it's not until they end up having to clean up after a pair of junior agents who completely bungled a mission far too advanced for them to handle that he finally takes his suspicions directly to the Grand Head.

The clutter that marked Cruller's tenure in office is conspicuously absent, replaced by a few half-empty bookshelves and clean, off-white walls. Truman, however, practically disappears behind his desk, which is a barely-organized mess of mission reports, personnel files, and assignments waiting on his approval. He looks ten years older; there are permanent circles under his eyes and a worn look about his face. As tired as he seems, though, he manages to listen to Sasha with something akin to concern, only occasionally interrupting to dig out a corresponding mission report.

"Listen, Nein...I understand what you're saying. And yeah, I screwed up on that last mission, I know--it should've gone to you and Vodello. I know, I know, and I'm sorry. But it's not like I'm the first Grand Head to make a mistake now and then--you and I both know Cruller wasn't perfect either. I mean, look at the way he handled personnel assignments. Malcolm and I couldn't stand each other, and I'm surprised you and Milla have stuck together this long without killing each other."

He stops and clears his throat, pushing a few folders around on his desk. "All right, look, we've all been under a lot of stress these past few months. Tempers are starting to wear a little thin and all that. But I've got a handle on things, all right? I promise, I'll have a chat with the network monitors about this as soon as I can, and I'll be taking a closer look at the assignments from now on. You and Milla should be back to saving the world in no time. Good enough?"

Sasha stares at him for a long moment while Truman looks back at him, slightly anxious. Finally, he sighs. "Good enough."

He grins, getting up to show Sasha out of the office. "Good, good. I'll get on that as soon as I can, I promise. Really. Let me know if anything else goes wrong, okay? I appreciate it." He nearly closes the door on the back of Sasha's jacket in his rush to get back to work.

Milla is sitting out in the lobby waiting for him, foot tapping to the beat of some unheard music. She stands up as he passes by and follows him out into the hallway. "Well? What's going on?"

He stops and turns to face her, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. "At the moment at least, _Morry_ would make a more competent Grand Head than Truman."

She winces. "Ouch."

* * *

Without bothering to knock, Milla waltzes her way into his lab, pulls up a chair next to him, and sits in it backwards, peering over his shoulder at the simulation he's running. Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately; he still can't decide), he's gotten used to such entrances and isn't even remotely fazed by them anymore. "What is it, Milla?"

"Come to dinner with me."

He looks up at the clock absently--it's almost eleven o'clock. "It's a bit late for that, isn't it?"

She rolls her eyes. "Coffee, then. But please?"

"I'm sorry, but I'm in the middle of an important experiment and can't leave it unattended."

"Please?" she asks again, idly folding and unfolding her coat in her lap. "We'd only go to the coffee shop just outside of town, and it's important."

He glances at her over his shoulder and raises an eyebrow. "There's coffee in the cafeteria and in several of the vending machines, and caffeine should _not_ be this urgent, considering the late hour. Besides, if these simulations work out, I believe I may have found a way to at least partially reverse the damage done to Agent Cruller's psyche. Is there anything more important than that?"

She peers a little more intently at the computer screen, then shrugs. "I suppose not, darling. It's just that Morceau and I had something we wanted to discuss with you, and you've been cooped up in here for _days_."

He knows she's just trying to pique his curiosity, to distract him, but he falls for it every time nonetheless. "And we can't discuss this here?"

"Actually, no, we thought we'd rather not." She twirls a stray lock of hair around one gloved finger, smiling impishly. "So, are you coming?"

He looks at her, then back at the simulation, then back at her again. "I can be in the parking lot in ten minutes, no sooner."

She grins and jumps up from the chair, kissing him lightly on the cheek. "I knew it! I'll be waiting, so don't be late." As she waltzes out the door, there's a new spring in her step that he's come to recognize as her equivalent of a victory march.

* * *

Precisely ten minutes later, Sasha is in Milla's car and they're already well on their way down the road. "How did the simulations go, darling?"

Sasha sighs. "Not well. They all failed. There must be something in the initial equations I'm missing, but I can't think of what. I probably just need to sleep on it." He shakes his head and looks over at her. "Now, would you care to tell me what it is you and Morry are up to?"

"Well...you know he and Leopold were supposed to find a way to protect the psitanium deposit near Lake Oblongata, don't you?"

"Yes...as I recall, Leopold retired shortly after that and Morry never exactly finished the assignment."

Milla nods, grinning as they pull into the parking lot. "He finished it. Well, almost. There's still a few details we need to work out."

"What does this have to do with me?" He holds the door open for her and two overly-caffeinated women who are leaving the coffee shop. "And why couldn't we discuss this at headquarters?"

"You'll see." She waves to Oleander--he's one of the few people in the shop this late, but has picked one of the less desirable tables near the back of the room anyway--orders a coffee (Sasha, preferring to keep to a more nocturnal sleep schedule, politely declines and takes a seat next to Morry), and pulls up a chair at the table.

"All right..." Oleander drops a thick roll of maps and blueprints on the table but makes no move to open them. "First of all, Nein, I'm assuming you read the latest reports about Cruller?"

"That several of the doctors have found signs that his old personality still exists, yes. But they have no idea how to bring it out of hiding...and neither do I. I've been running several experiments, but--"

"What about psitanium?" Milla asks, peering at him over the top of her coffee cup. He stares at her for a minute.

"Of course--_that's_ what I was missing! I can't believe I didn't think of it from the start! I'd have to run a few tests, of course, but it could require massive amounts of psitanium, and where would we--" He stops, seeing the matching grins on Milla and Oleander's faces. "You can't mean..."

Oleander unrolls the first map, which turns out to be of Lake Oblongata and the surrounding area. "That's right, Nein. The psitanium mother lode would probably do the trick."

Sasha looks at Milla, remembering what she said on their way inside. "So...you're proposing that the Psychonauts set Cruller to guard the mother lode?" He shakes his head. "Truman would never agree to it. He still sees Cruller as a security risk--you might be able to convince him to let Cruller out, under careful supervision of course, but to keep watch over the mother lode? No, he'd never agree."

"That's why we're not going to tell him, darling."

Oleander unrolls a series of blueprints and hands them to Sasha--each one details a separate building for placement around one side of the lake: a lodge, boathouse, and so on. He inspects each one of them in passing and then looks to Oleander for more information. "I've had an idea for a while that the Psychonauts should have a training facility besides the academy. We're wasting valuable time by waiting until the kids are almost adults to get them started on the basics. Hell, most of the new recruits we've got this year are practically useless."

"It would only be for a few weeks each summer," Milla adds, "and we could only take so many children...but it would still help."

Sasha opens his mouth to say something, but Oleander interrupts him. "Vodello's going to try and talk to Cruller and see if she can get him to agree to come out there and act as a groundskeeper or something--but we can also set him up to guard the psitanium deposit and see what that does for his brain. Who knows, if it works, maybe we could set him up as an undercover network monitor and he could be back to giving you two sane assignments in no time. So Zanotto gets a new training facility, Cruller gets his sanity back, and you two are back in the headlines--everybody wins."

Nodding slowly, Sasha looks over the blueprints again. "You do realize that you're suggesting we essentially disobey and lie to the Grand Head of the Psychonauts. If Truman ever found out, we would lose our jobs."

Milla rests a hand gently on his wrist. "We know. But I think we can all agree--" she takes a furtive look around the room, even though it's empty save for the bored looking teen at the counter-- "I think we can all agree that Truman's been making some...poor decisions lately."

"Yes, but--"

"Nein, if you don't want to do this, just say so already. Vodello and I could probably swing it by ourselves; I didn't even want her to bring you into it in the first place." Milla glares at Oleander from across the table and he quiets down, taking the blueprints back from Sasha and starting to roll them back up.

"Morceau wants us to join the staff on a temporary basis," Milla explains, not letting go of his wrist. "Just while the camp is actually in session. He'll be staying there with Cruller for most of the year so Truman thinks he's the one guarding the psitanium. But the children should have a chance to learn from the best instructors, and we've both taught at the academy before..."

He absently pulls one of the blueprints out of the pile--the one of the geodesic psycho-isolation chamber, which Oleander has marked for demolition--and motions vaguely to the ground underneath it. "That would be an excellent location for a lab...I've had a few ideas in mind lately that could be put to good use there."

Milla smiles at him, but Oleander just looks confused. "So does that mean he's in?"

"Of course it does, darling. Do you think you could have a proposal ready for Truman by tomorrow morning?"

* * *

As predicted, Truman is thrilled by the idea. The only convincing Oleander has to do is in regards to Cruller. Truman balks at the idea of letting Cruller out of his sight at first, but Oleander gets him to warm up to the idea after explaining that he'd be there to guard him year-round, and that it gets him out of Truman's hair at long last.

In almost no time at all the construction crews are at the site and hard at work (the high concentration of psitanium only drove a few of them insane), while Oleander frantically tries to compile lesson plans and the like. Milla, against Sasha's warnings that she not be so optimistic, is already talking to one of her friends among the network monitors, trying to find the best way to sneak Cruller into the system undetected.

As soon as work is finished on the one structure conveniently left off the proposal Truman received, Sasha and Milla bundle Cruller up and fly him out to the newly-christened Whispering Rock.

Sasha hovers over him throughout the entire flight, hoping that even a relatively close proximity to the psitanium mother lode will improve the state of Cruller's psyche. It doesn't, and instead Sasha nearly gets hit in the face with a broom Cruller insisted on bringing with him for his trouble.

"It's for self-defense, obviously," Milla says, watching them both with amusement.

"Very funny," Sasha mutters as they land.

Although the tunnels have been dug for the camp's rapid transit system, it hasn't actually been installed yet, so they have to walk to the deposit and the sanctuary built around it. Cruller's personalities shift randomly as they walk along; Milla does her best to keep them under control, occasionally shooting Sasha concerned glances out of the corner of one eye.

When they finally emerge from the tree stump and onto the narrow walkway leading to the sanctuary, though, Cruller falls silent. Milla holds her breath and even Sasha tenses up, waiting.

He ambles his way out into the center of the room, now standing directly over the mother lode, looking around the largely empty cavern. Then, finally, "Sasha? Milla? What the hell's going on?" He looks down at his feet. "And what's with the bunny slippers?"

Milla lets out a whoop and tackles Sasha with a hug that nearly knocks him off the walkway. She quickly backs off, however, clearing her throat while he dusts off his jacket. "We were right," she says, spinning in midair as if she's suddenly full of energy she can't get rid of. "_You _were right."

"So it would seem," he answers calmly, although even he can't hide the smile that's crept across his face. Cruller just stares at them, completely bewildered.

* * *

Whispering Rock Psychic Summer Camp's first group of psi-cadets arrives late that next July in a blur of overstuffed suitcases, parental well wishes (or not, as the case may be), and the standard screaming that seems to accompany small children everywhere. Although he's not much taller than they are, Oleander is attempting to herd them into some sort of formation and march them over to the cabins, but the best he's able to manage is a sort of wavy, occasionally single-file line that doesn't really go anywhere. Milla is having much better luck at checking them in and distributing t-shirts, and has even managed to send a few on their way to the cabins already.

Sasha, on the other hand, is standing on the hill overlooking the parking lot, smoking a cigarette and doing his best to stay as far away from the general chaos as possible. He has absolutely no desire whatsoever to get involved in that mess, and would have retreated back to his lab the minute he heard that the first of the cadets had arrived if he wasn't so curious about them.

Seeing as the oldest among them is twelve, none of them are particularly skilled, and a few even seem completely lost and confused. There are also, unfortunately, no prodigies in the crowd--but then, he'd known that already, having helped Milla and Oleander select these few from the long lists of potential cadets. He'd been hoping to see at least _some _glimmers of talent, however. "If these are the best of the best," he mutters, watching as Milla attempts to put out a small fire a girl accidentally set on her own shoes, "the Psychonauts are doomed."

"Eh, we've got bigger things to worry about--like where are those burgers I ordered?"

Sasha turns to Cruller, who is standing beside him and also watching the new arrivals, but with the slightly-panicked air of a chef trying to figure out how to feed everyone. "I believe you had those put in the freezer."

"...Yeah, that'd make sense." He shrugs and shuffles back into the main lodge. Sasha turns back towards the parking lot just in time to catch Milla's eye. She smiles and waves, motioning for him to come join her. He gives her a look and shakes his head. She pouts and waves at him again. Again, he shakes his head. She puts her hands on her hips and gives him a look that implies that if he doesn't get down there right this instant, she'll come up there and drag him back if she has to. He sighs, puts out his cigarette, and starts down the hill.

* * *

Sasha frowns and looks over the results again, scanning them for anything worth keeping. Finally he gives up and, declaring the day's work a total loss, deletes the entire thing. Milla stretches in a nearby chair, yawning. "Problems, darling?"

"You could say that." He looks back at the Brain Tumbler. In theory, the device was supposed to send the user into their own minds, where they would be able to cure their own mental problems, figure out their own personal demons, and learn a thing or two about self-control, while Sasha, as the project observer, could gain unparalleled insight on the effects this all had on the human psyche. In theory, anyway.

She stretches again--it's late, and been a long day besides. "Well...I hate to say it, Sasha, but maybe the children just aren't ready for this sort of thing. You might have better luck with it at the academy."

Sasha's jaw clenches involuntarily. He knew from the moment she'd arrived alongside Bobby Zilch (slow, untalented, and a bit of a brute, but at the moment the best of his class--unfortunately) exactly how this was going to end. He isn't deaf; he's heard the stories that are spreading already--several students hadn't exactly had pleasant experiences in the Brain Tumbler, worse than usual even, and of course stories like that tend to circulate around the camp like wildfire. Eventually those stories would have reached Milla, and he can predict her reaction easily.

"It's better that they learn these things when they're younger," he explains, doing his best to keep the tension out of his voice. "Besides, the Brain Tumbler is an imperfect science. I'm not expecting usable results every time. The camp is still in its first year; I expect that in later years these sort of mishaps will happen less often, particularly as I fine-tune the machinery." He pauses and waits for the response he knows is coming.

"I'm more worried about the effect this is having on the children. The stories I've heard--"

"The stories you've heard are grossly exaggerated narratives based off of extremely rare incidents. Was today's session anything like you've heard?"

She stops in mid-stretch, obviously caught off-guard by his interruption. "Well, no, but--"

"Then I see no reason to stop the experiments. If anything serious _did _happen, I would, of course," he says, nodding to her. "And you know I only take the best and most capable students. I'm not torturing them, Milla."

She stares at him a while longer, then sighs, getting up and heading for the stairs. "All right, fine, you win." She waits until she's almost to the ladder up to the surface before adding, with a faint grin, "This time."

He smiles despite himself, slowly shaking his head. Sometimes she's easier to figure out than she realizes.

* * *

Milla pulls the car to a slow stop a few blocks away from the building and shuts the engine off, slipping the keys into her pocket. She pauses with her hand on the door handle, looking at him. "Ready, darling?"

"Of course."

They leave the car and merge into the crowd entirely unnoticed--Milla having traded in her normally flashy clothes for a more subdued business suit, this is easier than it usually is--and let it carry them right up toCassandra Inc.'s front walk. Milla slips in through the front door; Sasha circles around the back and enters through an unguarded employees-only door. There are a few employees standing around on their cigarette breaks, but Sasha just nods to them like he knows them and they nod back, assuming that they must have met him once in a hallway and not remembered him.

He jogs up several flights of stairs and meets Milla on the fifth floor, just as she exits an elevator chatting with a young woman in a smart-looking suit. After the woman disappears down another hallway, Milla turns to Sasha and steers him to the left. "The main security office is this way."

They walk by it but don't go inside, instead taking up a position in a nearby hallway with a clear view of the door, where they pretend to have a very involved conversation about an unspecified business proposal. A few minutes later, the door opens and a guard leaves--they slip in just before the door closes, invisible and completely unnoticed.

Sasha moves over to a bored-looking guard watching the video feeds from the security cameras. A few well-placed psychic suggestions later, and the guard stands up and goes over to inspect one of the currently empty stations that happens to face away from the monitors. Sasha quickly kneels down and grabs an unlabeled tape from the end of last week's security footage--Agent Bulgakov had left it there when he'd infiltrated the night shift last week--which he slides into the nearby tape player. Then he carefully hooks the player up to the monitors, running the wires around behind the equipment via telekinesis.

It takes less than a minute, and he's just hit the play button when the guard on the far side of the room stands up. "Hey, Cooper!"

The guard who was supposed to be watching the video monitors looks up. "Yeah?"

"I'm going on break, okay?"

"Yeah, sure, okay."

The other man nods and heads out the door--Sasha slips out behind him again and then heads down the hall and into an empty men's room, where he finally returns to the visible spectrum. He leaves just as Milla is exiting the women's bathroom across the hall, and they walk in silence all the way to the nearest elevator.

Sasha leans closer to her to push the call button and whispers, "Did you get the security keys?"

"Yes. Did you take care of the cameras?"

"We're invisible for the next four hours."

They both get onto the elevator when it comes but get off on different floors, and then spend the next hour wandering around and acting like they're on their way to or from someone's office or a meeting while waiting for most of the employees to leave for the night.

Finally, the elevators start showing up with fewer and fewer passengers, the lights on a few floors are turned off, and more and more offices are locked down for the night. When most of the cars in the nearby parking structure are gone, Sasha meets Milla by a vending machine on the eleventh floor and they take the stairs up to the eighteenth in silence. There's a security panel on the stair doors; Milla punches a password in and waits until it turns green and the door pops open.

The floor is dark and empty when they arrive: it's mainly higher management and the CEO's offices, and they all tend to go home long before the regular employees do. They pick their way through the secretaries' desks and file cabinets to the CEO's office, where Milla keys in another password to let them in the door.

Once inside the room, Sasha takes a quick look around. "You take the file cabinets, I'll take the desk."

"Right."

There are no locks on any of the desk drawers, which Sasha finds a little strange, but convenient. Most of them contain little of interest; a few internal memos of no real importance, notes from a meeting two weeks ago, a carrying case for a laptop but no actual laptop, and so on. In one drawer he does find several pages from a financial report, which he hands to Milla to take pictures of with the camera she brought with her. When she's done he puts them back exactly where he found them and resumes his search. Milla, meanwhile, is nearly finished going through the first cabinet and is busy snapping pictures of internal memos and other possible bits of evidence.

He pulls open the bottom right-hand desk drawer, the last drawer he has left to search. It's empty and a little dusty from disuse, but there's a sheet of paper lying in the center, facedown. Sasha picks it up carefully.

_Nein, Vodello --_

_You really didn't think it would be this easy, did you? Come on now, Sasha, you at least should know me better than that. I'm disappointed in the both of you, I really am. However, if you should somehow manage to make it out of the building alive, please give my regards to Ford. _

_-- Nick_

"Milla...it's a trap."

"I noticed, darling."

He looks up to find her staring at something in the bottom drawer of a file cabinet. "Bomb?" he asks, hurrying over.

Milla nods. The bomb in question is a tangled mess of wires and explosives so big it barely fits in the (cleverly soundproofed, Sasha notes) drawer and is beeping ominously at an ever-increasing frequency. "We must have triggered it when we came into the room," she says, letting out a slow breath. "How much time do you think we have?"

"Probably not much. It seems likely to take out at least the entire floor; we should hurry." He moves for the door, but Milla goes for the phone on the desk and starts dialing. "Milla, what are you--"

"Hello, Cooper? ...Yes, I'd like you to evacuate the building." The beeping from the bomb has reached a speed and pitch that can best be described as ear-splitting; Sasha grabs Milla by the sleeve and starts dragging her out the door. "No, you don't need to know why. No, you don't--I don't care if it gets you fired, darling, just do it!" She drops the receiver and then bolts out ahead of Sasha, pulling a fire alarm on the way out for good measure.

They're halfway to the stairwell when Milla suddenly stops, grabs him by the arm, and makes for the nearest window. He figures out what she intends to do just a few seconds before they go crashing through the glass and barely manages to psi-blast it out of the way in time. They go flying out the broken window just ahead of the explosion, Sasha falling headfirst in a rather ungraceful manner until Milla manages to latch onto his elbow and slow his descent a bit.

Pushed on by the shock waves from the explosion and being more concerned with dodging flying debris than controlling their fall, they hit the ground hard; Sasha lands first and rolls under Milla to help break her fall. She lands with little of her usual grace and manages to knock the wind out of him, and he nearly ends up with a mouthful of her hair trying to get his breath back.

A few seconds slip by. There's a strange, eerie sort of silence around them, broken only by the sound of falling debris and the wail of sirens in the distance. A few more seconds slip by, these a bit more awkward than the first. Milla is breathing hard and her face is flushed, and suddenly the smell of her perfume is making his head spin and her hair is tickling his chin but oddly enough he doesn't mind.

"Milla..."

She lets out a breath and the color in her face darkens. "Yes?"

"Your shoe is stabbing me in the leg."

She turns bright red and rolls off him, disentangling their legs and springing to her feet and sputtering apologies the whole while. He gets up, dusts himself off, and makes sure that her three-inch heels didn't do any real damage (a bit of a scrape and the beginnings of what will be an impressive bruise, nothing more). Then he looks back at her again. "Ah..."

"Yes?" she asks again, still blushing faintly.

"You...ah..." He reaches out and pulls a chunk of debris from her hair. "Drywall."

"Oh. Thank you."

They slip out of the area relatively unnoticed and well ahead of the emergency vehicles and news crews, making their way back to the car. The drive back to Whispering Rock is quiet in an oddly awkward sort of way, broken only by pauses to brush leftover dust from clothing or to pick bits of paper and drywall out of their hair and pockets. Sasha keeps scratching at his chin whenever Milla isn't looking; it still tickles as if her hair was still there.

_**End Part Two**_


	3. Part Three

"Truman's not going to be happy about this. Then again, neither am I." Cruller frowns and looks up at the constantly rotating swirl of newsfeeds in the air around them. "I really thought we had a clear shot at exposing him, or at least shutting off his cash flow..."

Milla, floating in midair while she pulls off her shoes and shakes the dust out of them, just shrugs. "I'm sure we'll have another chance. He has to slip up some time."

Cruller shakes his head, watching another report on the explosion float by. "Not soon enough. This is the fifth time he's tried to kill one of us in the past year; someday he's going to start getting it right again. You didn't get anything from his office, did you?"

"A few memos and financial reports," Milla says, easing a shoe back on.

"Probably planted," Sasha adds. "It's likely that Nick took as much money and research as he could and ran once he realized we'd infiltrated the company. You can look them over if you'd like, but they're probably worthless."

Milla hands the camera over to Cruller and then looks over at Sasha. He blinks; is it a reflection from the psitanium, or is she blushing again? "We'd better be going, darl--Sasha. Truman will be expecting a report any minute now."

"Right. If there's nothing else, sir?"

"Nah, you two go ahead...I'd better take a look at this film, just in case. I'll send a copy to headquarters for you."

They leave the sanctuary, Milla throwing Cruller sympathetic smiles over her shoulder as she goes, and both head to the main lodge to call headquarters. "It's too bad we didn't find anything useful," Milla says, wrapping her arms around herself to ward off the cool night air. "He seemed so disappointed."

"I imagine we all are." Sasha holds the door open for her and then follows her into the TV lounge, where Oleander has once again fallen asleep with the television on. He pulls the phone out of the cabinet while she turns the volume on the set down.

They call Truman directly and, as Cruller predicted, he isn't happy. They spend nearly two hours taking turns explaining things to him, with Milla doing her best to calm him down and Sasha occasionally making suggestions that maybe all this just means they're getting closer to capturing him, although he doesn't think that's the case at all. Oleander doesn't wake up once.

When the call finally ends, Milla yawns and stretches and sighs. "This isn't a very good start to the year, is it?"

"Hardly." Sasha rather wishes Truman had recalled them both to headquarters; he has no desire to deal with the small horde of hyperactive, psychically gifted children that's about to descend on them--particularly not when that horde includes Lili Zanotto, Truman's daughter, meaning that he'll be looking over their shoulders more than usual. He looks up to find Milla staring at him, and they both lapse into a sudden awkward silence until she points at Oleander and raises an eyebrow.

"Should we do something about him?"

Sasha shrugs. "He seems happy where he is."

"All right...well...good night, darling." She smiles awkwardly and then flees the room.

* * *

Surprisingly, that's the last time he talks to her for weeks. Once camp is back in session they hardly have a chance to cross paths; Sasha locks himself in his lab when he's not teaching classes, and when Milla isn't holding class out on the docks she's busy trying to keep the children occupied so they won't have time to kill each other. On the rare occasions when Sasha remembers to come out of the lab in time for dinner, Oleander dominates the discussion, and Milla seems preoccupied, so he tends to leave her to her own thoughts.

When camp ends for the year, Milla is due to spend a week as a guest speaker at the academy, so Sasha takes the jet back to headquarters instead of driving back with her like he usually does. And the day she's supposed to return to headquarters, Cruller sends him a new assignment, a possible lead on Nick. The mission comes to nothing--just as Sasha figures it would--but it still takes him five days and he doesn't get back until the weekend, so of course Milla isn't in her office, and he doesn't want to bother her at home for no reason.

What's even more surprising, for him, is that as the days wear on he finds himself missing her. It seems like forever since he last had such a long stretch of time all to himself to work on his experiments without suddenly being interrupted by her trying to drag him out of the lab for some reason or another, and at first he appreciates it, but after a while he almost wishes someone _would _interrupt him.

Finally, after pondering on this strange phenomenon for several days, he comes to the irrefutable conclusion that he has, somehow, gotten used to her flamboyant presence at long last, and he supposes it could be argued that he's also formed some sort emotional attachment to her, as ridiculous as the idea seems.

When Milla drops by his lab early Monday morning (completely unannounced, per usual) with a new assignment, she's rather surprised when Sasha smiles and asks her how she's been.

* * *

"How do I look?"

"Presentable."

Milla sighs, putting her last earring on and brushing a few stray strands of hair out of her eyes. "Oh, _honestly_. Would it hurt you to just give me your honest opinion for once, darling?"

"I did give you my honest opinion," he answers, tugging the sleeves of his suit jacket down--they don't fit quite right. "You look perfectly presentable for the mission at hand."

She rolls her eyes. "Right. If you say so." Checking her hair and make-up in the rearview mirror one last time, Milla hops out of the car and makes her way across the parking lot. Sasha trails after her, still straightening his tie.

Not having official invitations per se--the president is willing to allow them but was unable to find them invitations on such short notice--they have to sneak in through the caterers' entrance and then move invisibly through the kitchen before finally disappearing into the crowd. Milla, predictably, heads straight for the wide dance floor, while Sasha stays near the orchestra--from there he has a clear view of almost the entire room.

He's only been scanning the room for a short while when Milla suddenly appears at his elbow and motions to some spot across the ballroom. "I found him--he's on the other side of the room, talking to the German ambassador. ...No, over to the left more, darling."

Sasha sighs. Clearly, their target knew to expect some kind of trouble. Not only is he lurking near some of the highest-ranking dignitaries in the room, but he's also keeping his back to the wall and an eye on the crowd. "We'll have to come at him from both sides. Milla, you--"

"I have a better idea." She smiles at him and he suddenly has a very bad feeling about this. "You know, Sasha, in all the years we've been partners you've never once asked me to dance."

"Should I have?" he asks, confused, and not liking where he thinks this is heading.

"Well, no...but you should now. We can get over to him faster that way."

He grimaces and slowly shakes his head. "I don't dance, Milla."

"Don't, or can't?"

There's a long pause. Then, "It's not that I _couldn't_, it's that I never learned how."

Still seemingly undeterred, she grabs him by the hand and pulls him out onto the floor before he can stop her. "Well, it's time you learned, darling. Here, I'll lead." She takes his hands and places one on her waist, then holds onto the other, gently interlacing their fingers. Her remaining hand she leaves resting lightly on his shoulder.

"Now," she says, taking a step back into the crowd, "watch my feet if you have to. It's easy; you should pick it up soon enough."

They move in an almost herky-jerky fashion at first; Milla keeps trying to pull him closer and lead him across the room, but he prefers a more comfortable distance and he's admittedly a little tense.

Finally, after one of them nearly steps on the other's foot for the fifth time and they've made absolutely no progress (nearby couples, however, are starting to stare and give them a wide berth), Milla stops him. "Sasha, I said to let me lead."

"I am," he says, secretly hoping she'll abandon this nonsense and agree to his initial plan.

"No, you're not. Here, I'll show you." She takes a step to start the dance again. Sasha follows and, already anticipating the next step, takes it. Their feet collide and they both stumble.

"You see?" She shakes her head, smiling despite herself. "I know I might be asking for the impossible, but I need you to give up just a little bit of control, darling. Just this once." She practically stares him down until he nods, doing his best to relax as she draws him in closer, readjusts his hands, and then leads him further out onto the dance floor.

At first he has trouble letting her control everything, but she keeps smiling patiently and leading him through the steps as best she can. After a few minutes they fall comfortably into a rhythm and he masters the basic steps well enough that she starts leading less and less, and by the time they're halfway across the floor, he's the one leading.

"You're quite good at this, you know," she says, breaking the long silence.

"Well, I had an excellent teacher."

She laughs and blushes almost up to the tips of her ears.

When they finally weave their way through the crowd and are near enough to their target, he brings them to a slow stop and disentangles his fingers from hers, although he doesn't move away just yet. Milla doesn't move either, and they stare at one another for a long moment.

"Milla?"

"Yes?"

"If you would be so kind as to distract the German ambassador..."

"Oh. Right." She slips away and out of his grasp--he realizes with a little embarrassment that he hadn't taken his hand away from her waist. Straightening his tie again, he moves up right behind the target just as Milla coaxes the ambassador out onto the dance floor much like she did to him. He watches them with a slight twinge of an emotion he can't quite place for a split-second before he remembers the task at hand and taps the man in front of him on the shoulder.

"Maxwell Virago?"

Already tense since Milla disappeared with the ambassador, he jumps a mile at the sudden contact and splatters a nearby woman with champagne. He whirls around to face Sasha and does his best to compose himself. "Jesus--you know, you really shouldn't sneak up on people like that."

Sasha smiles thinly. "My apologies. However, you are Maxwell Virago, correct?"

He starts backing up, instinctively searching for an escape route. "Yes...who are--"

"Sasha Nein," he says, taking a step forward, "and I'm going to have to ask you to come with me."

Virago laughs nervously, shoving a few stray strands of blond hair out of his eyes. "What? Why?"

"Put simply, you're wanted for known connections to a wanted psychic terrorist and suspected espionage against three different--four," he amends, remembering the German ambassador, "four different governments."

Virago hardly waits for him to finish before breaking into a run--Sasha grabs him telekinetically and starts dragging him back just as Milla arrives.

"Really darling," she says, blocking Virago's only other exit, "could you please come quietly? We'd hate to break up the party on your account."

They manage to get him out the back door with a minimum of fuss; he goes very quietly once Milla stuns him. He's handed off to a pair of junior agents waiting for them a few miles away, and then they drive the rest of the way back to headquarters in silence.

"That was fun," Milla says once, her smile half-hidden in the car's darkened interior. "We should do that again."

Sasha just snorts and shakes his head.

* * *

At three in the morning the day before Whispering Rock opens for its fourth year, Sasha takes a walk around the campground to try and clear his head. The Brain Tumbler experiments from the past two years have all backfired somehow or just plain failed to work, and his notes are of no help in trying to figure out the problem. None of the readings make any sense, and a third of them from last year show unusual interference that he just can't decode, particularly not after 2AM. So, he emerges from the psycho-isolation chamber, lights a cigarette, and decides to take a walk.

The night air is unusually cool, and the faint breeze blowing in off the lake makes it even colder. The grounds are empty and quiet; most of the forest's wildlife has retreated to their lairs rather than venture out into the unseasonable weather.

He wasn't expecting to run into anyone (except for Agent Cruller, who is for some inexplicable reason raking the grass near the GPC and mumbling about a contact lens), it being so late, so he's more than a little surprised to find a familiar figure standing on the beach. Putting his cigarette out, Sasha slowly makes his way down to the shoreline, making sure not to startle her.

Milla is standing just clear of the surf, her shoes sinking into the wet sand a bit. She's staring out at some point in the distance, arms wrapped tight around her chest, shivering in the cold. Her hair is slightly mussed, as though she didn't brush it after waking up, but she's still dressed in the clothes she was wearing yesterday.

"It's a bit late, isn't it?" he begins, since she doesn't seem particularly inclined to start a conversation any time soon, or even acknowledge his presence.

"Mmm. I suppose." She draws her arms in tighter and lets out a slow sigh. "So what are you doing out so late?"

"I was going to ask the same thing."

She flashes him a weary grin. "I asked first."

"I just needed to clear my head," he says, shrugging. He doesn't go so far as to explain the problems with the Brain Tumbler; she's still looking for excuses to argue with him about that. "I have a touch of insomnia, perhaps. And you?"

She hesitates, letting her feet sink a little further into the sand. "I...I needed to clear my head, too."

He looks at her with a raised eyebrow--something in the tone of her voice tells him there's much more to it than that. Nightmares maybe, or severe insomnia, given that she looks like she hasn't slept at all lately. He almost asks her if that's the case but stops himself, figuring that if she wanted him to know, she would have told him.

After a long pause in which neither of them says anything, Milla sighs and looks over at him. "Would you say precognition is actually possible?"

Sasha blinks, caught slightly off-guard by the spontaneity of her question, then thinks for a minute. "Well, it is officially recognized by the Psychonauts as a psychic power, yes, and if generations of famous--supposed--seers have anything to say about it it is...but I've yet to find any evidence supporting those theories."

"You've never had a vision? Not even in a dream or a nightmare?"

"No." He pauses, then adds, "Have you?"

She laughs, but it sounds somewhat weak and forced. "Of course not." Again, he has the feeling that she's not telling him something, but considering the late hour he's willing to let it slide.

She yawns, stretching a little. "It _is _late, isn't it?"

"Well, if you wanted to be specific, it's actually early morning."

"Mmm. Right."

He almost turns to go, then stops, hesitating again. "Are you...are you sure you're all right?"

She shrugs. "I'm fine, darling. Just tired and a little cold, that's all."

"I see." He tries to think of a reason why she wouldn't fix this situation, and then something finally clicks. He pulls his jacket off and drapes it over her shoulders, tentatively. A faint blush creeps over her face, but other than that she doesn't respond. "May I walk you back to your lab?"

Milla smiles slowly, and he gets the impression that he's at least gotten one thing right tonight. "I'd like that. Thank you." She draws his jacket tighter around her shoulders and then takes his arm, although he hadn't offered it to her.

* * *

"Have you seen my--oh, never mind, I remember where it is." Milla zips through the living room and into the kitchen, roots through a few drawers and cabinets, and then zips back through the living room to the bedroom. Sasha, sitting on her couch with his suitcase already packed beside him, sighs and rubs his temples.

"Milla, we're going to be late."

"I'm almost finished, I promise!" comes the all-too-predictable response from the other room.

"We should have been on the road two hours ago..."

"Morceau can survive without us for a little while, darling." She comes back into the living room and starts looking under chairs. "By the way, could you check under the couch for me? I'm missing a shoe."

Without even thinking--or wondering why on earth one of her shoes would be under the couch, of all places--he telekinetically pulls it out from someplace near his foot, shakes a dust bunny off it, and tosses it towards her. She catches it, grinning, before darting back towards the bedroom. "Thank you, darling!"

"Milla--"

"I _said _I was almost finished, Sasha, and I meant it. Honestly, why are you in such a rush?"

He frowns and considers this for a minute--he's not sure why, exactly, but he's been more eager than usual to get to Whispering Rock this year, almost as if he's waiting for something important to come of it. Which is odd, as he and Oleander haven't exactly been on good terms lately, to the point that Oleander insinuated that he wouldn't mind if he and Milla didn't come back for the camp's fifth year. Furthermore, while the Brain Tumbler experiments have been showing marked improvement, he's never looked forward to dealing with the children and their occasional attempts to kill one another. Finally he just chalks it up to having accidentally picked up some of Milla's irrational tendencies, or perhaps some of her ridiculously infectious enthusiasm, and leaves it at that.

"I would just rather not be late. You know how Morry gets."

She laughs. "Morceau doesn't care if we're late, darling, and you know it. _You_, on the other hand..." A few minutes later, she emerges from the bedroom with two suitcases in tow. "There. I'm ready."

They bring the suitcases down to her car and load them into the trunk, and then they're finally on their way to Whispering Rock. There's silence for a while, as has become the norm between them on long trips, and then Milla starts looking for conversation starters.

"Has Morceau seemed a little..._off_ to you lately?"

"How so?"

"I don't know...more reckless, a bit more...intense than I remember."

Sasha shrugs. "He's probably just bored. We likely would be, too, if we were stuck at the campground for most of the year."

"I suppose so. Well, it's probably nothing."

"More than likely."

* * *

"That kid's one in a million, Nein! And I'm not gonna let you turn him into one of your guinea pigs! I've got big plans for that mind..."

Milla sighs and shakes her head. "Don't be silly, darling. Razputin won't be participating in anything without his parents' consent. You know the rules--you wrote them."

Oleander stops and considers this for a minute, then rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Look, I've got work to do--lesson plans, you know. Why don't you call his parents, Vodello...and Nein," he adds, his one good eye gleaming dangerously in the light, "you just stay out of my way, understand?"

"I didn't realize I was in your way in the first place," Sasha answers, calmly lighting a cigarette. Oleander snorts and starts towards the cabins to enforce lights out. Milla, still smiling--although her smile is strained at best--loops her arm through Sasha's and gently steers him towards the main lodge.

"An odd start to the year, isn't it?"

"Highly unprecedented, yes." He glances back at the kids' cabins over his shoulder. "I've never seen mental defenses like that in any but the most talented psychics, and he's so young...it's amazing, actually."

She sighs, and the way her step slows and her attention turns more towards the forest below tells him she doesn't share in his enthusiasm. "I'm sure it is, darling."

He stops halfway across the bridge that separates the cabins from the rest of the grounds, turning to face her and forcing her to stop, too, or else run into him. "Milla. Even you have to admit that the boy is a prodigy--with the proper training he could easily become the most talented psychic of his generation."

"But he's only a boy," she says, shaking her head. "And he's not supposed to be here besides. Now, I have to go call his parents before Morceau kidnaps him or something--I don't know what he's capable of anymore."

She moves to go around him, but he reaches out and catches her by the arm, surprising both of them. He lets his hand linger at her elbow for less than a second before he draws it back and leans against the bridge railing. "Call his parents if you like, but you know Morry's likely to let him participate regardless of what the rules say. Would you rather I stand by and let him botch everything, or would you rather give the boy a chance to learn from the best instructors like the rest of the children?"

There's only a slight pause before she answers, glaring at him, "I'd rather you were there to put a stop to whatever madness Morceau is going to get him involved in. But since you're acting as reckless as he is, never mind." She spins on her heel and marches off towards the main lodge, leaving him standing there with eyebrows raised in her wake.

_Hmm, _he thinks, _an argument. We haven't had one of those in years. _For some reason he's not at all thrilled to remember those days, and he almost--almost--goes to apologize to her then and there. But then he decides to give her some time to cool off, instead, and then he forgets all about it.

* * *

"Okay, so these results are corroborated by that CAT scan, and..."

"Morry, is all this entirely necessary?" Sasha unearths his cigarettes from under pages and pages of psychoanalysis and lights one, raising an eyebrow at Oleander.

"Of course it is," he answers, hurriedly jotting some notes down on a brain wave analysis. "What, you don't want me to prove this was all just an isolated incident caused by lingering personal demons? I'm sane now, all right? I have proof, right here!"

He shakes his head, taking a long draw from his cigarette. "I was referring more to the third and fourth--" he looks at the papers scattered all over the main lodge and amends, "--and fifth opinions. I think you may be taking this to unreasonable extremes."

"Just don't want to leave any room for doubt is all," he says, then resumes mumbling to himself about scans and brain waves. Sasha sighs and leaves him be--he submitted his report to Truman hours ago; he has nothing to worry about.

Almost entirely unnoticed, Milla enters the lodge and picks her way through the mess to where they're sitting at one of the back tables, Armin--Razputin's father--following close behind her.

"What's all this?" she asks, taking a seat next to Oleander and not looking at Sasha at all. She's been strangely distant from him almost since they arrived at the campground, he's noticed--maybe he should have apologized for that earlier argument after all.

"I'm putting a full report and apology together," Oleander says, not looking up from his notes. "Hand me that CAT scan, would you? Thanks."

"It's a bit...it's a bit much, isn't it?"

"That's what I suggested," Sasha answers, shrugging, "but he doesn't seem to think so."

Oleander glares at both of them. "Pardon me for trying to prove my innocence. And you--" he points at Armin, who has taken a seat a few spaces away from Sasha-- "I think you're sitting on my supporting evidence."

He half-stands, pulls several loose pieces of paper out from under him, and hands them over with a slightly amused, "Sorry."

Sasha puts out his cigarette and turns to him. "By the way, how is Razputin?"

"He'll be fine. He may never eat meat again," he adds, chuckling, "but he should be fine besides that."

"He's sleeping," Milla continues, absently tugging on her gloves. "Like you should be, darling." She gives Oleander a pointed look, but he just shrugs it off.

"I'll sleep when I'm finished."

Milla smiles and shakes her head. "If you say so." She looks over at Sasha, directly addressing him for the first time that evening. "Have you talked to Agent Cruller yet?"

Sasha nods. "And sent my recommendation along to Truman."

"I'm still not sure it's a very good idea..." She trails off, eyes darting towards Armin. "But then, it's not my decision."

He shrugs, idly pulling another few pages of test results out from under a foot and placing them in Oleander's outstretched hand. "Your Agent Cruller makes a pretty compelling argument...so do you," he says, nodding to Sasha. "And I can see he'd be in good hands."

"Completely innocent hands!"

Sasha sighs. "Yes, Morry, we know."

"His mother's going to kill me for it," Armin continues, "but I think you're right. I had no idea..." He trails off, shaking his head. "I underestimated him. He's already outgrown everything I could possibly teach him. If you think headquarters is the right place for him then, well...I'm not going to disagree."

Milla looks slightly defeated, but she pats Armin's wrist anyway and promises to keep a close eye on Razputin. Sasha only smiles faintly. "You've made a wise decision. Thank you."

They don't leave the lodge for a few hours yet, until it's nearly daybreak and Oleander has passed out on one of his CAT scans and Armin is asleep on one of the couches in the TV lounge. The campground is eerily silent; the cougars have all retreated to their caves and the children have yet to wake up. The rubble of Thorney Towers is still smoldering in the distance, sending a lazy sort of fog drifting out over the lake.

"Morceau said he'd brought a few inmates in..." Milla says quietly, looking out across the lake. "I wonder what happened to them."

"Knowing Morry, he's probably got them writing testimonies for him right now." His attempt to add some levity to the conversation falls flat, however, and she just shakes her head at him. He sighs.

"If this is about Razputin, Milla, you should know his talent would be wasted here or at home. He's earned all of his merit badges and logged more hours in the field than most academy students do their entire education; that more than qualifies him for the rank--"

"I know, I know." She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "You're right."

His step falters a little as he blinks at her, both eyebrows raised. "Then...you're all right with our recommendation?"

She nods. "I did bring up a few concerns in my report to Truman, but you're right. It's a bit...odd, but since his father agrees and there's nothing in the rules against it, exactly..." She trails off with a slight shrug.

They walk in silence for a while before Sasha clears his throat. "Well...I should go update Cruller on the situation." He turns to go, then stops, looking at her. "Are you certain there's nothing else bothering you?"

For a split-second it looks as if she's about to say something, but then she just shakes her head again, offering him a faint smile. "No, I'm fine. I'm just trying to get my rhythm back--you know how it is, darling, getting your brain stolen."

"Too well," he says, turning to go again. "So long as you're all right--I'll see you at Morry's speech, then."

"Right. Goodbye, darling."

* * *

Milla is asleep on his shoulder, all of her slight weight pressed up against his side. Her breath is slow and even, and as uncomfortable as he is--his foot is asleep, her hair is tickling his neck, and his shoulder is getting sore--he doesn't want to disturb her by moving her. She hasn't slept in days.

Razputin slides down the wall to a seat across from him, letting out a long, slow sigh. His face and clothes are smeared with dirt and everything about him suggests exhaustion. "We checked--" he stops, sees Milla, and drops his voice down to barely a whisper. "We checked the whole building. It's clear."

Sasha nods. "Morry's taking the first watch, I'm assuming."

"Yeah."

They fall silent; Milla's breath is the loudest sound. His shoulder is falling asleep. This closeness is becoming more than a little awkward, he admits, and he starts to contemplate moving her somewhere--anywhere--else. Razputin is staring off into space, half from exhaustion, half from a too-obvious distraction.

Sasha sighs. "You shouldn't think about her too much, you know."

Raz looks up, blinking. He seems confused, although Sasha has a feeling that he knows much more than he's letting on. "What?"

"Ms. Zanotto." Milla stirs, sighs, and digs her chin further into his shoulder. He flinches, then continues. "You're distracted. By, I would assume, thoughts of both her and the current state of your relationship."

Raz thinks about this for a minute, then shrugs. "Well, yeah, I guess...but what--"

"I've taught you to control your thoughts, channel your anger...love should be dealt with in much the same way. It's the hardest emotion to control, the most unpredictable and illogical, but you must at least make an attempt to deal with it. Left unchecked, it could prove to be a critical distraction. And considering the nature of our mission and the kidnappers we're dealing with, distractions are precisely what we don't need."

Silence descends again while Raz processes this information and mulls it over. Sasha catches a slight movement out of the corner of his eye and tenses up, but relaxes when he recognizes the shadowy figure on the catwalk above as Oleander. He's been edgy this whole mission, but whether it's from exhaustion, having the Grand Head of the Psychonauts kidnapped out from under everyone's noses, or from trying to adapt to a new team dynamic with Raz and Oleander tagging along, he has no idea.

Finally, Raz stops frowning contemplatively and nods. "So...stop worrying about Lili and whether or not she's still my girlfriend. Check."

"It's easier said than done, I should warn you," he adds, "but that's another lesson for another time. You should rest; it's going to be another long day tomorrow."

Raz rolls his eyes. "Yeah, that's what you said last night right before the ambush." He makes himself as comfortable as he can on the warehouse's concrete floor while Sasha, whose entire arm has started to go numb, gently eases Milla off his shoulder and onto the floor. She hardly even stirs, much less wakes, and he allows himself a quick sigh of relief.

"Um, Agent Nein?"

Sasha looks up--Raz is watching him with one eye open. His hand automatically snaps away from where it had been resting on Milla's arm. "Yes?"

"Could I ask you a personal question?"

"No."

"Oh. Okay. Um...never mind then." He looks at Milla once more, then rolls over and goes to sleep. Sasha blinks, momentarily confused, then dismisses the whole thing from his mind, finding a comfortable (and clean--relatively) spot on the floor near Milla and going to sleep.

* * *

They're creeping through long, empty corridors, phasing in and out of the visible spectrum as guards pass by, with Sasha doing his best to keep them from getting lost, when Milla suddenly clears her throat.

"Sasha?"

He stops and looks back at her. "What? Did we make a wrong turn?"

"No, I...I just--"

"Then can it wait? We have to find and disable the security system before Raz makes it through the ventilation system--"

"--and reaches Truman's holding cell, I know, I know." She sighs. "It can wait; I'm sorry."

"Good." They duck around a corner and then down another long, straight stretch of hallway before they finally find the door to the security offices. Sasha looks at Milla, nods, and then they both disappear. The door sliding open with seemingly no one there to open it takes away a bit of the advantage of surprise, but a quick confusion grenade tossed into the middle of the room gains it back tenfold. While the guards inside are still struggling to orient themselves, Sasha knocks them to the floor with a series of psi-blasts and Milla takes out the security console.

The lights flicker and go out for a brief moment before a generator kicks in somewhere, providing only emergency lighting. A few sparks fly from the shattered machinery as the generator tries to re-establish power on the security grid, but fails. "There," Milla says, but it's lacking her usual enthusiasm, and she's not smiling.

Sasha just motions to the door. "We should be going. Raz may need our help, and although I'll assume Morry's still trying to disable the back-up generators, we really should find him."

"Right." She starts to follow him out the door, then stops, letting out a long breath. "Sasha, I lied--it can't wait."

He stops in his tracks and turns around, eyebrows raised. "What can't--oh, right. I see. Milla, if we weren't in the middle of a rescue operation, I would be inclined to agree with you. However--"

"My promotion's finally gone through," she says, cutting him off. He blinks and stops, letting her continue. "Cruller told me just before the whole incident with Morceau started. I've made senior field agent."

"Well...congratulations, then. But we really should be going." He motions to the door again, this time with a touch of urgency.

"That means I can do whatever I want," she continues. "Transfer somewhere, pick a junior agent as a new partner...whatever I wanted."

"Yes, I know. Being a senior agent myself, I'm aware of the corresponding privileges. Now, we really should move." There are voices down the hall; they both turn invisible just as a group of guards come into view. Sasha starts down the hallway away from the guards, hoping Milla will follow.

He's pleased to see her behind him when they both reappear around the next corner. She still seems distracted, however. He sighs but keeps walking. "I assume you'll be trying a solo career," he says, making sure to keep his voice down. "Your promotion should have been approved two years ago; you must be anxious to try working alone."

She surprises him by nearly tripping over her own feet in a moment of utter gracelessness. "What makes you think that?"

"Logical reasoning, that's all." The conversation stops as they have to revert to invisibility to make their way past a group of armed guards rushing to the security offices. When they're visible and can talk again, he doesn't elaborate on his point, assuming that the conversation has been put on hold, if not finished.

Milla, on the other hand, isn't through. "What do you want me to do, Sasha?"

"Excuse me?" He looks back at her, not breaking stride. "If you want my advice--"

"No, I mean, what do _you_ want me to do? Would you like me to stay, or..." She stops, forcing him to stop, too, rather than leave her behind.

He has to take a moment to consider her question. His first instinct is, surprisingly, to be completely selfish and illogical and ask her to stay. However, he stops himself just short of actually saying that. "Milla, you know I can't make that decision for you. While I have admittedly gotten used to having you as my partner, the decision is ultimately yours, and my opinion shouldn't decide the matter for you."

"But you _do _have an opinion."

"Yes, I do." He peers around another corner and then motions for her to follow once he sees the way is clear. "We've been partners for over six years now, Milla, of course I do."

"Then can I ask what it is?"

He shakes his head. "No. I told you, you need to make up your own mind."

She sighs. "Right...I'm sorry; I'm silly for bringing it up. We should be looking for Morceau and rescuing Truman."

He would say that he's happy to see her back to business, but he can't shake the feeling that he's somehow managed to disappoint both of them.

* * *

"Did you see the way I--"

"Yes, son, we did." Truman sighs a little impatiently and slaps a lukewarm ice pack over his eyes. "And we're all very impressed. Now, please. Migraine."

Raz frowns but quiets down, his enthusiasm and post-mission adrenaline cooling off somewhat. Milla smiles and pats his shoulder, then gets up and moves towards the back of the jet, motioning for Sasha to follow.

"Are we sure he's all right?" she asks, leaning over the jet's mini-fridge and casting wary glances at Truman. "I mean, we still don't know why Nick kidnapped him or what he did to him..."

"I've already submitted a recommendation for a full mental evaluation once we get back to headquarters," Sasha says, looking back at Truman over his shoulder. "I doubt there's anything wrong with him besides some post-traumatic stress disorder and sleep deprivation, but if there is, it'll be found soon enough."

She nods. "You're probably right." She sighs and starts to head back to Truman and the others when she pauses in mid-stride. "You know, if I do decide to take a transfer, this could have been our last mission together."

He's known her long enough to know a blatant attempt to lead him on when he sees one, and this time, he refuses to fall for it. "In that case, it wasn't a very successful last mission, was it? Nick escaped, Morry nearly got himself killed, and Raz had to rescue Truman after we let ourselves get distracted by an obvious diversion."

Milla grins, shaking her head. "We must be slipping, darling."

"I would hope not."

She goes back to her seat after that and they don't get a chance to speak privately again. When they land at headquarters they're both caught up in the media circus and general chaos of settling Raz in, convincing everyone that Oleander is in fact entirely sane, and making sure Truman is all right--which he is, aside from some lingering stress.

Sasha gradually retreats back to his lab, and when Milla doesn't come to drag him out like she usually does, he assumes the matter is settled--she must have decided to leave. He starts waiting for the new personnel file to land on his desk, and when it doesn't, he starts getting agitated. Twice he nearly goes looking for Milla to ask what's going on, but each time he thinks back to the conversation in Nick's hideout--and his first, irrational response--and thinks better of it. Besides, he has work to do and a new lab assistant to train.

* * *

The knock at his lab door comes right when Sasha is deep in the middle of an experiment--the results have just started coming back from a simulation. He doesn't even look up from the screen. "Sheegor, would you get that?"

Sheegor practically flies by him on her way to the door, almost knocking over one of the monitors. Sometimes he thinks she's too clumsy for his own good, but then again she's only been at headquarters for a short while, and he's hoping that she'll settle down, given time. He turns back to the experiment and starts picking through the results, completely tuning out what's going on at the door until Sheegor sneaks up behind him and clears her throat.

"Agent Vodello's here to see you."

He looks up, surprised. Milla, knocking? _Maybe I've rubbed off on her more than I thought_. "All right...tell her I'll be there in a moment." He pauses a second simulation currently in progress and looks over a bit more of the results in front of him, then turns towards the door.

She's done something with her hair, he notices--pinned some of it back and styled it more than usual. And her dress is longer, nicer, and of a more muted color than her usual, as if she were on her way to a dinner date. Actually, she looks quite lovely. He raises an eyebrow involuntarily. "Milla?"

She'd been staring at the floor and jumps at his approach, then nervously clears her throat and smiles. "Oh. Right. Hello."

He raises his other eyebrow at her sudden awkwardness. "You remembered to knock. To what do I owe the honor?"

"I, ah...you've been locked in here for days, you know." He nods. She fidgets a bit, smoothing out a wrinkle in her dress, then looks back at him. "So...I thought I'd...invite you to dinner. If you'd like to go, that is. Because you don't have to."

Now her dress makes a little more sense. He stops, thinking, and looks back at the simulation he left paused, the pages and pages of results he has yet to go through, and the analysis he has yet to finish. "I...I'm sorry, Milla, but I'm afraid I can't leave this experiment just now. Thank you, but...I can't."

She nods, already backing up towards the door. "No, I understand. Don't worry." She offers him a faltering smile and sees herself out. "I'll...see you on Monday, I suppose."

The door closes before he can reply. He sighs, turning back to the experiment. Sheegor is casting him a disapproving look out of the corner of her eye. "Please, don't start."

"Sorry." She squeaks and disappears around a corner, back to work. He starts the simulation back up and continues picking through the test results.

He's only been working for a few minutes, though, when he realizes that he's getting absolutely nowhere. He can't seem to find the focus to make any of the results mean anything, he can't think of a thing to add to the analysis, and the simulation seems to be taking forever and is making no sense besides.

For another minute he stares blankly at the screen, thinking. Then he pauses the simulation again.

"Sheegor, shut everything down and go home."

"What?"

"I said to shut everything down and go home."

"Oh. That's what I thought you said, but...okay!"

He pulls his jacket on and heads out into the hallway, then breaks into a run. He catches up to Milla almost at the front doors; she has her car keys in one hand and her other hand is on the door handle. She stops when she sees him coming, blinking. "Sasha? Is everything all right?"

He pauses to compose himself and catch his breath. "I was wrong. It turns out that the experiment could be left unsupervised after all. If the invitation is still open...?"

She's smiling so much she's positively beaming. "Of course it is."

He opens the door for her, and this time, he's the one who holds his arm out for her to take. She does, and he smiles. They're almost to her car when he clears his throat to speak again. "Milla?"

"Yes?"

"Pardon me for sounding selfish, but if you haven't already made up your mind, I'd...I would like it if you chose to stay."

She pulls herself in so close to him that her hair is almost brushing against his neck, sighing contentedly. "I had absolutely no intention of leaving, darling."

_**Finis**_


End file.
